No, I don't remember
by tofsla
Summary: The first working day of the new year and Hermione tramps irritably through the slushy mess of salt and half-melted snow that coats London's streets. Harry & Hermione friendship fic. Please note that this story deals with the divorce of a canon couple.


_Notes: For Anehan, for the prompt "Divorce? What divorce?" Title from the Anna Ternheim song of the same name. Harry & Hermione friendship fic. Ambiguously canon compliant in several respects and definitely not canon compliant in one. Written last year & as such entirely unrelated to any interview JKR may have given on the topic of shipping._

* * *

The first working day of the new year and Hermione tramps irritably through the slushy mess of salt and half-melted snow that coats London's streets. There's a small hole in her right boot she hadn't noticed, and icy water is slowly seeping in through it and soaking into her socks. If she could just reach her wand—but she had to take the Centaur case files home over Christmas, of course, and then this sudden meeting about it tomorrow, and here she is, hands full, lugging a box of papers down Basinghall street in full view of a dozen Muggle businesses. With increasingly cold, wet feet, which seems perfectly symbolic of something or other.

And her mobile is ringing.

She ignores it. It'll be Harry, who'll have talked to Ron, who'll have said all kinds of things, probably true as far as they go, but not—

"Phone's ringing, love," someone shouts after her, and she has to take a deep breath and count to five to stop herself turning around and shouting something inappropriate back at him.

* * *

The post box at the front of the building is empty except for three rather damp newspapers, but there are ten owls just swooping down to the back window when she comes up the stairs, which is about average—there'll be a bigger wave later, once everyone else's offices are open. For now it's the Prophet, one French paper and one Spanish, the proof of a new anthology to be given out by the International Union of Magical Creatures with a request for comments, five requests for advice on topics ranging from gender-based discrimination at a Potions conference to the preservation of magical forests in central Finland, the last of which must have been misdirected. Nothing from Severus, which rather annoys her, although only because he ought to be done with the comments on her opinion piece by now. Instead, the tenth owl is Pig, but he seems to have lost his letter somewhere on the way, if he ever had one. He's rather confused these days, even in comparison to his usual self. She feeds him distractedly, pats him on the head and shoos him away, opening the anthology with her other hand, already wondering whether there's any coffee left in the little kitchenette.

Naturally, there isn't.

* * *

Harry stops by at lunch time, brushing soot from his robes as he steps out of the tiny fireplace, looking rather earnestly worried. It's sort of endearing, really, although she wishes he wouldn't. In point of fact she hadn't even realised it was lunch time, she was so deeply buried in an article challenging the human/creature binary and ideas about its possible implications for her work.

"Are you alright?" Harry says, straight away, no _hello_ or _do you have time_.

"Rather busy," Hermione says, pushing her hair back from her face. It does insist on coming loose from its bun all the time, and you'd think spells would work better, but it's just hopeless. "It's just as well you stopped by, because I have a meeting at the Ministry in an hour, and I'd completely lost track of the time, and I don't think I'll ever feel ready for it, and there's all this—"

"Look, I just wanted to say," Harry says, hesitates before plunging on. "Whatever happens with the divorce, it's going to be OK."

"Divorce?" Hermione says, momentarily baffled. "What divorce? I don't do take on those kinds of—oh."

"_Hermione_," Harry says. He's staring at her disbelievingly, and it's suddenly as though they were thirteen again, only Ron isn't standing there next to him ready to say _she's mental_ in tones of awe. Oh, Ron. It's never going to be the same again.

"_My_ divorce," Hermione says. "You meant my divorce. I can't believe I—oh my _god_—" and then she's laughing in great sobbing gasps, face buried in her hands, until her stomach hurts with it. She can't help it. It's just all so completely, hysterically absurd.

At some point Harry's hand has come to rest on her back, moving in awkward little circles.

"I'll make you some coffee," he says, and that sets her off again.

"There isn't any," she manages. The farcical quality of the day just doesn't seem to want to go away.

But he just helps her up and shoves some tissues into her hands and then there _is_ coffee, somehow.

"Summoned it," he says, a bit guiltily, glancing over at the open window of the office building that backs onto hers. "I'll, er, go and leave some money downstairs later. Come on, Hermione. We've got to get you out of here. Come at eat lunch with me and I'll make sure you get to the Ministry on time."

* * *

They eat sandwiches in Diagon Alley, looking out through the café window at the mercifully slush-free street—there's something to be said for magic, of course.

"Thank you," Hermione says. She's sure she must still be a bit red around the eyes, but she's feeling more like a human being again. "I know it wouldn't be fair to talk too much about it, not when Ron's your friend too, but—"

"But how did I manage it?" Harry says, gives her a lopsided smile. She nods. "Pretty badly, honestly. I'm lucky Molly and Ron still talk to me. But that's only because I'm such an idiot. You're smart."

She doesn't feel very smart. The whole thing feels so irrational, she hardly knows what to do with it. One has feelings, and then one doesn't, and then one has feelings for the wrong person entirely, and one acts on them or tries to will them out of existence and whatever one does it doesn't really seem to end up going anywhere good, and what on earth is the point of it all, anyway? If there was ever some sort of emotional map for these things she never managed to find it.

It would be nice to feel as confident as Harry seems to about her own ability to manage her life.

"It's all my fault, you know," she says. "And it's been coming for a long time now, I think. You should be worrying about Ron."

"Oh, come off it," Harry says, though she knows she saw his face fall for a moment. "Does it really have to be someone's fault? It's not like you actually—right?"

"Of course not," she says. "And I won't. It isn't as though—and I have far too much to do anyway."

Harry smiles. "That's the Hermione I know."

She wonders if they're still exciting enough news for the paper to bother with the predictable article about her and Harry having lunch together right after the divorce announcement. Never mind that last year the official gossip-column line was that Harry briefly being involved with Andy Newcombe made him gay and meant that his relationship to Ginny must have been fake all along. Consistency has never been the Prophet's strong point. Nor, for that matter, has subtlety. And this whole world is far too small.

She wonders if Harry even bothers about what they write in the gossip columns. Hopefully not.

"Come on," Harry says. "Time to be getting back. They hauled Snape in to talk about exactly what kind of anti-intruder jinxes he's actually allowed to have on his house this morning, you know, so if you wanted to ask him about that thing you wrote we can stop by and rescue my co-workers from him on our way."

Hermione takes a deep breath, checks she has her bag and that her gloves haven't escaped under the table again. Collects herself. "That would be good," she says, as brightly as she can. "I did wonder why he hadn't owled."

[fin]


End file.
